


Melts in your Mouth, Not in your Hand

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky's getting out of the hospital and Hutch has a delicious surprise for him</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melts in your Mouth, Not in your Hand

Starsky settled into the wheelchair, examining the little room with a mixture of elation and dread while Hutch stuffed get-well cards and a huge purple plush hippo from Rosie Dobey into a plastic bag. This was the last time he’d ever have to look at these four walls and the rectangular window with the view of a yellow and red McDonald’s across the street. The last day of early morning wake up calls for blood draws, midday lunches of bland soup, lime jell-o and apple juice, and evenings spent listening to the ambulance come screaming into the ER two floors below.

He’d anticipated this day for so long, through three infections and two surgeries. Not to mention the cardiac arrest. To be truthful, he didn’t remember being dead for nearly eight minutes. He had no real memory of much of anything that had happened during the last two weeks in May—one of his few clear recollections was playing ping-pong with Hutch surrounded by painters in the squadroom and after that, nothing until May 29th, the day Hutch went to San Francisco to arrest James Gunther.

And here it was July 26th. Ten weeks in the hospital and he didn’t even get to walk out under his own steam. The whole thing sucked and conversely, he was happier than he’d been since the night he and Hutch kicked Kira out of their lives and found themselves in bed together.

Starsky’s emotions had been all over the map for days. He knew it, and so did everyone else. Even Hutch sometimes acted like he wasn’t sure how to talk to his partner and a couple of the nurses had stopped caring for him after one of his more memorable temper tantrums. But that was in the past. He was being sprung from the land of the sick.

“Can you handle this?” Hutch held out a plastic bag bulging with the last of Starsky’s get-well gifts.

“I’m not a crip . . .” Starsky cut himself off before he lashed out at Hutch, too. He didn’t even know why he was so angry lately. He should be grateful to be alive and elated that he was on the mend. He was honestly thankful that he had such a forgiving partner; he’d never have made it this far without Hutch to turn to. Hell, Hutch was far, far more than simply his detective partner.

Like a sorceress, Kira had seduced them and then lifted the blinders from their eyes, revealing the person each of them loved more than life itself. As if their coupling had been some sort of fateful prophecy, the irony of finding perfection and being unable to hold onto it; Starsky had been shot the next day.

Two times he’d made love to Hutch.

Two times for a lifetime.

So why couldn’t he be nicer to the man?

“Starsk?” Hutch asked cautiously. “You all right?”

“I can carry it.” Starsky accepted the bag, tucking it into his lap before looking up at Hutch’s worried face. Hutch had the harried, half-terrified expression of an actor trying to remember the lines to a play he’d only learned he was performing moments ago. “I’m okay, Hutch, honest. Nothing hurts—much.” He had to tack the last on, to be honest.

“Do you need some pain pills? I have the prescription here somewhere.” Hutch nearly dumped the orchid he was carrying on the bed in his haste to dive into one of the myriad sacks containing Starsky’s possessions.

“No, can we get out of here?” Starsky asked sharply and regretted it when Hutch went blank for a moment before plastering on a fake cheery smile.

“Lead on, McDuff,” Hutch said. He hoisted the orchid and three of the bags just as Caroline, Starsky’s favorite nurse, came back in to push the wheelchair.

“Thank you so much for the See’s, Hutch!” she said, giving him a peck on the right cheek. “You’re so thoughtful, buying a two pound box for every shift. This is a kiss for evening shift,” she gave him one on his other cheek. “And one for night shift.” That one went right on his lips.

Starsky watched with mounting jealousy as Hutch responded enthusiastically, a flush coloring his cheeks and the back of his neck.

“I may just have to bring you ladies more chocolate next week if I can get another thank you like that one!” Hutch laughed, running his forefinger over his bottom lip as if reliving the moment.

“Can we get going?” Starsky asked crossly. What was going on here? Hutch looked like he enjoyed that kiss far too much. Had Starsky driven him away with his recent foul mood? The idea of losing Hutch when he was once again able to express his love in a physical way—or would be as soon as he was off all the damned morphine—hurt more than the scars lacing his chest together.

“Good-bye, Dave!” Melinda, Denise and Sammie, the other day shift nurses, called out as Caroline pushed him toward the elevator. Starsky noticed with ill-humor that all were munching on chocolates, their eyes bright with happiness. No doubt glad to get rid of him.

As glad as he was to be rid of the entire place.

The ride in the elevator was quiet, the three passengers quiet except for Hutch shuffling the plant and the bags in his arms. Caroline finally relieved him of two of the sacks, hooking them over the handles of the wheelchair.

“I’ll get the car. Starsk, just stay where you are,” Hutch said, running off without giving Starsky a second look. The delicate petals of the lavender orchid he carried bobbed over his left shoulder as if waving good-bye.

“Apprehensive?” Caroline asked, setting the plastic sacks on the curb. She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, raising her eyebrows to silently ask if it was all right if she smoked.

Starsky nodded his assent, frowning. “Apprehensive about what?”

“Getting out of here.” Caroline shrugged with a little smile, lighting a Virginia Slim with a yellow Bic lighter. “Spending time with him.” She took the first drag, blowing smoke in the direction Hutch had gone.

“Why should I be?”

“Lots of patients who’ve spent as much time as you did, were as badly injured as you, have a hard time re-adjusting to the world outside the hospital.” She played with the end of the cigarette, holding it out to the side so that the smoke didn’t blow in his face. Starsky appreciated that, since his recently healed lungs barely tolerated regular air, much less stinky cigarette smoke. “You’re lucky that you won’t be alone. He . . .” Caroline gave a wistful smile. “He doesn’t look at anyone else the way he looks at you.”

Starsky inhaled too sharply and coughed, bracing one hand over his aching chest. Did she know that he and Hutch were lovers?

“Oh, damn, the smoke is getting to you.” Caroline dropped the butt, rubbing it out with the toe of her rubber-soled white shoe. “I have to quit, it’s a terrible habit.”

Getting his breath back, Starsky waved away her apologies and the last of the smoke. “I’m okay,” he hacked. “Cough all the time these days. Why’d you think Hutch looks at me . . .in some kind of special way?”

“You don’t notice?” The edges of her smile flattened slightly, as if she were fighting some powerful sadness. “That’s too bad, because it’s beautiful. I used to wish my ex looked at me that way.” The sound of a poorly tuned muffler interrupted anything else she might have said and she picked up the patient bags. “Your chariot awaits, Dave.”

Starsky stared at the battered aqua Ford Mercury Marquis without recognition. Had to be Hutch’s car, he was driving. Where was the Matchbox-car sized Belle? Confused, he watched Hutch trundle the patient-belonging bags into the cavernous trunk with almost frantic haste, muttering something about the pharmacy taking too long with the prescriptions and throwing their departure time off by half and hour. As if that mattered in the long run.

Suddenly, Starsky was afraid to leave. What if something happened that neither he nor Hutch could handle alone? Not like he expected to die again—once was enough, thank you very much, but being too far away to have Caroline run in the moment he hit the nurse call button was suddenly very scary. No wonder Hutch looked like he’d forgotten the lines to the play. He’d been given a long, imposing list of medications, therapies and treatments necessary to keep Starsky healing and relatively pain-free, and it had to be terrifying to him, too.

Starsky didn’t protest when Hutch all but picked him up to get him into the car. He allowed the fussing because every time Hutch touched him or carefully made sure he was comfortable, a warm flush went straight down from the top of his head to his feet. It felt so damned good, Starsky wanted to cry and that made him angry. What the hell?

“G’bye, Dave, I’ll miss you.” Caroline waved. “You’ll always be the miracle patient around here. Stay safe and be strong.”

“Thanks,” he said, humbled and still off-kilter. Hutch’s car felt foreign and Starsky tried to figure out why he didn’t have any sense of being where he belonged.

“Like the new, old car?” Hutch asked heartily.

“What happened to Belle?” Starsky asked. Should he have known Hutch had bought another junker? Had he forgotten some conversation when he was too wrapped up in his own woes to hear Hutch’s?

“She conked out on the highway back in May . . .” Hutch stopped, making an odd strangled noise. “Uh—when I was on the way to the hospital to see you one morning. Had to trade her in.”

“And you picked this one, instead?” Starsky glanced around the interior, wrinkling his nose. Absolutely no new car smell. More like a kept-in-a-barn-and-only-driven-on-Sundays aroma. “Musta saved a bundle.”

“I did,” Hutch said brightly and steered out into the street. “The radio works great. Want to hear some music?”

“No,” Starsky grunted, needing quiet to re-acquaint himself with the world.

Summer had come in while he was laid up. Palm trees swayed limply in a fitful breeze. Bay City lay under a thick coating of brown-yellow smog, the air as hot and thick as the kitchen at Huggy’s during lunch rush when all the fryers were bubbling.

There was a flat silence in the car that weighed heavily on his chest and brain—or maybe it was simply the smog. Starsky didn’t remember ever feeling this uncomfortable being in a car with Hutch. He felt out of step with life, and yanked back into the real world after being segregated from humanity in the disabled ward.

Would he ever regain his footing? Something had to give or he’d go mad.

“You bought the nurses See’s and didn’t get me any?” Starsky tossed out as an opening gambit.

“Starsk, did I tell you about the last case I worked on with Cavendish before taking the leave of absence?” Hutch apparently ignored Starsky’s ploy and launched into an entirely different subject. “And before you say what does that have to do with candy, I’ll tell you.” He turned, smirking at him, and arched one blond eyebrow.

Starsky, who had been about to bring up just such an argument, stopped with his mouth half open. He was fascinated with this animated, bright-eyed Hutch. This guy hadn’t been around much. He’d almost gotten used to the stressed-out Hutch who had looked too old for a man who hadn’t yet reached his thirty-fourth birthday. Somewhere in the last months, the Hutch he’d known since the academy had been replaced by a tense man with haunted blue eyes.

“Eddie and I—you remember Cavendish?” Hutch stopped, literally and figuratively, bringing the car to a halt beside a stop sign. “You know, I think he transferred in after you got . . .well, he came up from San Diego because he bought a house in BC. I told Dobey I already had a partner . . .” He tightened his lips, staring fixedly at the red and white hexagon on the corner before driving into the intersection. “But the Captain told me that Eddie just needed someone to show him around town for a couple of weeks.”

Starsky may not have remembered the car, but he did know Hutch had worked with a younger detective for the last month. The first week they had been paired, all Hutch did was bitch about having to work with a newcomer, but obviously, the two had become friends. Just one more wedge separating Starsky from his old life. He had to swallow the bitterness in the back of his throat, remembering that he and Hutch went back much further than Hutch and Eddie. That he and Hutch had made love before he was shot, and he wanted to do that again some day in the near future.

“Anyway,” Hutch continued. “Yesterday, we were responded to a call at a place called Unique Chocolique.”

“Chocolique?” Starsky repeated, rolling the tasty word on his tongue. He liked the feel of it against his hard palate and little click at the end.

“The owner molds chocolate into all kinds of shapes but she’s received some threats from a local committee for her window display.” He grinned, the smile softening the hard lines over the bridge of his nose. “The assembled chocolate body parts were, let’s say, a tad too graphic for the high school kids who were crowding around to get a look.”

Starsky grinned in response, unable to resist the twinkle in Hutch’s eyes. This felt so right, so normal, that he even forgot his earlier anger and the way his chest ached when he inhaled the dirty city air. “Don’t tell me, she made cocks?”

“And not just roosters,” Hutch joked, nodding. “A fully anatomical male completely formed out of chocolate, every part perfectly represented. The Bay Area Society for Temperance and the Respect of Decency wanted to charge Delphine Confisier with every anti-porn ordinance in the city and throw her out of business.”

“Those BASTARDs are at it again, huh?” Starsky chuckled. “Didn’t they learn last time that Bay City doesn’t have many anti-porn laws? Haven’t managed to get rid all the smut and kink shops along Washington so far.”

“It is illegal in the city limits to display out an erect . . .member,” Hutch said, his shoulders shaking with mirth. “And there is a law against urinating on the sidewalk.”

“She didn’t pour chocolate on the street!” Starsky giggled helplessly. “She only exhibited her . . candy to the public.” It was too funny. He wished he’d been there. The laughing hurt his chest, but he didn’t care. Every giggle put the hospital, the shooting and the past behind them. This was he and Hutch, together and on the road forward. “So what’d you do?”

“We examined the . . .evidence to determine that it was what the BASTARDs claimed it to be,” Hutch said tongue in cheek. “It was in fact, quite impressive. But—as luck would have it, chocolate doesn’t last long in 85 degree heat and direct sunlight. Which was probably the point all along. Mademoiselle Confisier was baiting them because this was at least the third time they’ve targeted her candy shop. I suspect this isn’t the last complaint we’ll get from those . . . “

“BASTARDs,” Starsky put in, one hand splayed over his left rib cage to splint his chest when he laughed. It felt like his scars were going to pop open. He had no doubt that he was going to pay dearly for all this activity, and would need a painkiller the minute he got in the house. Still, he was happy. “So the stuff all melted away?”

“Like my dick after a go-round with the Delancy twins,” Hutch said breezily. “Or you.” His voice had softened, infusing the last two words with desire and arousal.

“Oh,” Starsky said, something clenched around his heart loosening. Hutch did still want him. “I . . .you want to do that again? ‘Cause, I was worried maybe you . . .”

“Starsky, I want you—have wanted you since long before we actually had sex.” Hutch put his big hand over Starsky’s thigh, squeezing gently. “Don’t ever believe anything different.”

“We got a couple obstacles to get over, the biggest bein’ I haven’t been hard since, well, the last time we did it.”

“Morphine, and half a dozen other meds still roaming around in your blood stream,” Hutch said, flashing Starsky a sweet smile before turning the steering wheel onto Riverside for the drive up the hill to Starsky’s house. “Doctor’s already decreased your doses on almost everything, I checked the prescription labels. And you can still kiss, can’t you?”

“I can still kiss,” Starsky agreed, warmed to the marrow of his being. “I’d plant one on you right now, big guy, but I’m afraid you’d ram into the garage door.”

“I’ve driven this road in the dark of night and in torrential rain, have I ever hit your garage door once?” Hutch spun the wheel in a hard right and slipped the Ford neatly into Starsky’s driveway. Once he’d switched off the engine, he leaned over, cupping one hand behind Starsky’s neck and kissed him.

Starsky moved into him hungrily, the need for that solace, that perfection, so deep that he never wanted the kiss to end. Unfortunately, he was nowhere near ready for contact sports requiring good lung capacity and stamina. His chest was heaving, lungs bursting for air after only a few seconds, and his heart was pounding so fast he could see the vibrations through his thin ‘I had surgery at Memorial Hospital’ t-shirt.

“Damn,” Starsky said, panting.

“Hey—it’s okay.” Hutch laid a steadying hand on Starsky’s belly. “It’s a start, just need to work on your wind.”

Starsky took a careful breath, very aware of the pain that arched between his ribs and diaphragm. If he wasn’t careful, he’d get lung-lock, when it felt like his whole chest seized up, refusing to allow the smallest gasp of breath through. Caroline had told him that was exactly how asthma patients fought to breathe and had given him medicines he had to inhale deeply into his lungs. The problem was, those meds sped up the heart and gave him an uncomfortable dizzy feeling for hours afterward. Better to sit quietly and wait for his breathing to slow naturally.

“Gonna take forever to get up those stairs,” he said, looking up at the front steps with new eyes. He’d never considered the ascent as anything more than a picturesque way to get up to a house built with the garage below the main living spaces. Now, the stairs advanced upward like some kind of Mt. Everest trek. Hutch could be the sherpa guide and carry all the bags, freeing Starsky to rappel from riser to riser without the help of a rope or walking stick.

“Give me time to finish my story,” Hutch said sensibly, gathering up the orchid and opening the trunk for the bags. He toted them all inside the house and came back to lean on the passenger side door. “Why don’t you get out and sit on the bottom step—won’t look so far from there.”

Starsky found that simply unbending himself from the car seat to a standing position was startlingly difficult. He took a ragged breath in. Everything hurt by now, and he was regretting giggling for so long.

No, take that back, he wasn’t. He’d had a ball, and if Hutch had more to tell, he wanted to hear the entire saga. “Didja get to taste the—uh—evidence?” he asked, creeping past the car by bracing one hand on the hot metal door until he could reach the stair railing and lever himself down to sit.

“No, but we had to write her up, she had violated local ordinances,” Hutch explained. “I let Cavendish do the honors so I could look around the shop. She really is an artist. There was a bust of Beethoven made of chocolate, little teddy bears that looked so life-like I wanted to buy one for Rosie Dobey, and flowers that could have been growing in the ground.” He looked down at Starsky with a fond expression. “The whole place made me think of you. You’d have loved it. The smell alone was amazing. Thick, rich chocolate like perfume.”

“Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory,” Starsky said, sure he caught a whiff of chocolate in the air. “I thought you said she made body parts.”

“She does, and I was going to get something for you, as a welcome home gift. But did you know,” Hutch paused, sitting down beside Starsky and then scooting up one riser so that he was up and behind him. “That there is a huge medical convention in town over at the Bay City Hilton?”

“No.” Starsky had to twist his neck in an uncomfortable position to look back at Hutch so he backed up very carefully and sat on the riser next to his partner.

“There is—very prestigious,” Hutch said. “Doctors from all over the U.S. are here to talk about the latest advancements and Mme. Confisier was hired to make the dessert for the banquet. She told me she made dozens of organs--hearts, brains, stomachs, all out of chocolate. Some were solid and some had vanilla or raspberry filling.” Hutch rose slightly, planting his butt not one but two steps up farther than Starsky.

His mind on chocolate, particularly a cock made to the measure of Hutch’s impressive rod, Starsky didn’t really catch onto Hutch’s subtle trick until he’d matched the two risers. Starsky then upped the ante by backing up to a third step so that he was higher than Hutch. Looking down at the Torino, it suddenly occurred to him they had already tackled half the seemingly insurmountable staircase without much effort.

“Now who’s the bastard?” he said affectionately and slugged Hutch in the shoulder. His punch didn’t have much power behind it but it was enough to push Hutch down one step. The fact that Hutch was laughing may have had something to do with that, too. And just the effort made Starsky’s chest hurt more, pain radiating down both arms, fatigue dragging on his energy and eyelids. If he didn’t make it into the house soon, he’d have to take a nap mid-span on the steps.

“Thought my story and the promise of chocolate would distract you.” Hutch stood, brushing off his denims.

“You thought wrong, Buddy-boy,” Starsk said with mock fierceness. “You did get me something?”

“Busted, all you want me for is my chocolate.” Hutch smiled cat-like, and leaned down to kiss Starsky with a gentleness that he usually only brought out for old ladies and little girls under six. That this street roughened cop who had could take on hired assassins single-handedly could bestow something that sweet on his equally tough partner spoke of deep, abiding love. It was almost too much to bear.

“Yeah, and I want some chocolate—now,” Starsky proclaimed, holding out one hand. “Haul me up, Hercules. Just be careful of Dr. Silverman’s stitches. Told me he hates darning the holes.”

“I would never incur the wrath of that man,” Hutch agreed solemnly. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Starsky took a slow, deep breath and let it out as Hutch put his hands under each arm and carefully pulled him to his feet. No matter how prepared Starsky was for the maneuver, it hurt, pulling abused muscles and tendons across his chest and shoulders. He’d learned to breathe shallowly, relaxing as much as possible to avoid the dreaded lung-lock. Still, the climb up the remaining five steps was taxing. He leaned against Hutch for a long moment before gathering energy to step across the threshold of his own house unaided.

Just walking inside brought back a sense of belonging. This was his place, and the couch looked very inviting after months in the folding torture frame of a hospital bed. Hutch followed directly behind him, hovering but not suffocating, until Starsky lowered himself onto the cushions.

“Time for your pill,” Hutch said softly. He draped the red, yellow, blue and black Mexican blanket from the back of the couch over Starsky’s shoulders. “I’ll be right back.”

Hunched over on the sofa, Starsky was aware of Hutch puttering around in the kitchen, and let the sounds of his own home draw him back into his old life. The scratchy feel of the wool blanket was a reminder of many naps on the lumpy couch and good times with Hutch drinking beer and talking about nothing while watching the game on TV. The pain in his chest diminished, but at the same time, the little fear had returned that he would never be able to be the Starsky he was before—forever destined to languish in the corner with the other disabled cops.

“Are you sleeping sitting up?” Hutch sat down beside him, the sofa cushions sinking under his weight so that Starsky listed to the right like a leaky old boat taking on water. He almost fell against Hutch, but was caught by steady arms at the last minute. “Hey,” Hutch whispered in his ear, and that wonderful shiver was back, tickling all down Starsky’s back. “Wake up, sleepy head. I’ve got a pain pill, some water to wash it down with, and the specialty du jour, liver.”

“What?” Starsky squeaked. He sat back, regarding Hutch in disbelief. “You think since I’m in a weakened state you can get me to eat liver? Ain’t ever gonna happen, Blintz.”

“Oh, well then.” Hutch shrugged with an exaggerated sigh. “Guess you didn’t want the chocolate after all.” He started to pick up the dish containing a smooth, creamy brown object that was firmly rounded on one end and much smaller and slightly pointy on the other.

Starsky caught a faint scent of chocolate and grabbed up the oddly shaped confection. “This is what you bought from Ma’am-zelle Chocolate lady? What is it supposed to be?” Now that he had it in his hands, the allure of chocolate was undeniable. He longed to take a big bite and contented himself with licking a little of the sweetness off his fingers.

“It’s a liver—half a pound of solid Belgian chocolate, the imported stuff,” Hutch said with a smug grin. “Mme. Confisier was all out of hearts—which was my first choice. This was the only body part she had left, because it was too close to the side of the pan when it hardened. She didn’t want to send a misshapen liver over to a bunch of doctors.”

“You wanted to give me a heart?” Starsky pretended to scoff, but was touched more than he would ever let on.

“I already gave that to you,” Hutch reminded, pragmatic to a fault. “But the more I thought about it, this particular liver was perfect for you.” He laid his hand gently on the right side of Starsky’s belly, exactly over the lowest of his scars. “When they brought you in to the ER, the paramedics were already sure you were dead. Told me you were bleeding out. There was blood in one lung, and if your liver was hit, there was no way you’d make it to the operating room.” His voice cracked, all the terror of that awful morning eroding his usual strong façade.

“Most men have about th-thirteen pints of blood in their whole body.” Hutch reddened at the telling stutter and ducked his head, his hand still wrapped around Starsky’s right flank, protecting the healing scars. “You had to have fifteen transfusions of blood, Starsk. Fifteen.”

Starsky closed his eyes, resting his cheek on Hutch’s bowed head. He hadn’t asked much about those first terrifying hours, not really wanting to know how close he had come to dying. Hutch hadn’t ever talked about May 15th , as if determined to leave the worst behind them. So what about a chocolate liver had brought it all back?

“The ER docs barely stabilized you, just sent you up to the OR. I think they were hoping that you didn’t die on their watch.” He grunted a laugh that sounded way too much like a sob. “People came in from Metro—Dobey, Minnie, even Simmonetti and Dryden. All to give blood for you.” He looked up finally, his eyes suspiciously bright, but there were no tears. “You and Simmonetti have the same blood type.”

“Just my luck,” Starsky said to lighten the mood. “Think I’ll suddenly be IA material now?”

“Never.” Hutch inhaled sharply but regained his composure. He held out the pain pill and a glass of water. “I was so . . . angry that I couldn’t donate for you. I got this weird idea that if I gave you some of mine, you’d survive.”

“But you’re B and I’m A, Babe,” Starsky said softly. The two types weren’t compatible. He knew that much about anatomy. He swallowed the morphine, also knowing enough to take the med before the pain got so bad that all he could do was curl up and sleep.

“Always on opposite sides.” Hutch massaged one eyebrow, and Starsky could see the his own ghost still haunting Hutch in the creases around his eyes.

“It wasn’t until later that I actually asked what the bullets hit and where. Dr. Silverman came and talked to Dobey and me. There was massive damage.” Hutch didn’t go on, just looking at Starsky as if he hadn’t quite accepted the fact that he had survived. “To your lung and stomach.” He cleared his throat with a cough.

Starsky let out a tightly held breath, grunting with the pain. He’d never thought about it from Hutch’s point of view. Never imagined the toll just listening to such a recital must have taken.

“The liver was just nicked—enough to bleed badly, but they’d repaired it there.” Hutch touched the chocolate organ, tapping the lumpy place on the rounded end where it had gotten too close to the side of the pan. “Dr. Silverman said he had to suture the right upper quadrant closed.” He smiled, the exact one Caroline must have seen so many times and wished it were directed at her. “That was my first proof that you didn’t need my strength—you had your own.”

“You got a knife? I think we need to perform a little surgery on this liver.” Starsky said, when he could speak. He didn’t want to betray his own tremulous emotions or they’d both end up bawling like one-year-olds without a baby bottle between them. “See if the imported stuff holds up to good ol’American Hershey’s.”

“Starsk, you put the un in uncouth. European chocolate is renowned around the world,” Hutch said with the snooty superiority that Starsky always found slightly annoying, but there was gratitude in his voice. He’d revealed too much. His discomfort showed in the way he stumbled over the end of the couch getting up and dropped cutlery on the floor fumbling through the silverware drawer. “This one?” He held up an old steak knife that Starsky knew had gone dull.

“Just do the honors, Hutch!” Starsky ordered, once again grouchy and grateful in the same moment. He felt pulled between his old life and the new one. He’d died, and yet lived, with no memory of any bright lights or meetings with deceased family. He’d survived ‘massive damage’ with the scars to show for it but still wasn’t quite sure where he belonged in the world of the living. “You got the strength in that right arm to hack this thing into pieces.” He wanted to tell Hutch that he depended on his strength every single moment, but he didn’t.

“Keep your shirt on,” Hutch grumbled, going at the liver with the knife. Bits of succulent chocolate broke off and both took slices, playfully ‘clinking’ their pieces of candy together to toast his homecoming. “Sante,” Hutch said. “To your heath.”

“Skoal,” Starsky said and took a bite of the rich chocolate. Hutch was right: Belgian chocolate was amazing. Smooth, dark and elegant on his tongue, almost erotic. The only thing better would have been Hutch’s cock coated in the stuff, a chocolate pop. That image was too enticing, wonderfully arousing to every part of him except his dick, which absolutely refused to rise to the occasion.

To distract himself, Starsky took another slice of chocolate, leaning against Hutch’s shoulder, drowsily amused that he was eating liver and enjoying himself. He should call his mother to tell her the news. Should shout from the rooftop that David Starsky was back and pretty soon, would be better than ever.

“Should get you to bed,” Hutch said remotely, his arousal was very evident in the front of his jeans

Starsky licked chocolate off his bottom lip. Trust his partner to be thinking about sex at the exact moment he was. “Yeah . . .” Starsky purred. He wanted that so badly, but his cock was still as limp as cooked spaghetti. “Must think I’m a cheap date. The good chocolate and then a roll in the hay.”

“Starsk,” Hutch warned, and took a deep breath as if willing his erection down. “You’re incorrigible and this is most definitely not the right time.”

“When?” Starsky was as stunned as Hutch at the fury in the single word. He saw the way his partner pulled back, wary and uncertain but Starsky couldn’t explain his eruption. The teasing foreplay had segued abruptly into frustration and anger without a single warning sign to the unwary. “When do I get my old life back, huh? When’s the right time? I’m sick and tired of waiting. Tired of being broken!”

“Don’t.” Hutch pulled him into his arms, letting Starsky shove impotently against his strength. “Don’t. You made it, Starsk. You lived.”

“For what?” Starsky asked bitterly, his chest aching so badly that speaking hurt. “I can’t walk across my own living room by myself. Eating wears me out. I want . . . what we had before.”

“Be patient,” Hutch told him, steering him into the bedroom, their legs bumping every other step.

Starsky could feel Hutch’s groin against his thigh. Hutch’s hard-on had softened, which made Starsky sad and irritated at the same time. “That’s all I hear. You remember the Rabbi who came up to my room after the nurses complained about my behavior?”

“Your tantrums?” Hutch corrected sardonically, bending his knees to ease Starsky down to the bed.

“He said that where I got hit was probably some kind of spiritual awakening.” Starsky wearily toed off his shoes and carefully pulled his legs onto the bed so he could lie down. “T’make me take a good look at my life. Told me the Talmud referred to the liver as the seat of anger and that the teachings said the gall-bladder could counteract it.” He wrapped his arms around his body, afraid to give in to the conflicting emotions that threatened to spill out. “I told him to fuck off. Think I’ll get some kinda eternal damnation for that?” He wanted to hit something, chase down a criminal, have sex. Anything physical and sweaty that would drain off some of the powerful sensations that had welled up. “I didn’t even know what he meant.”

“Both of you could have used some tact,” Hutch said placidly. “And it all depends on what text you’re reading. Some of the old Arabic teachings called the liver the center of courage and all strong feelings.” He sat next to him, arranging the pillows under Starsky’s back. “Doesn’t take a religious scholar to know that you’d need to fight back after what you went through. Throwing your Jell-o at Sammie and demanding pistachio ice cream was probably going too far, but I saw it as progress.”

“I still got a good pitching arm,” Starsky agreed.

“You’re tough as nails and crazy as a loon. The same stubborn streak that’s kept you alive on the street came through again, Starsk,” Hutch said with a certain amount of awe that evaporated most of Starsky’s temper. “You didn’t even let dying keep you down.”

“Had to come back,” Starsky threaded his fingers through Hutch’s. “Never got a third date.”

“You think we were dating?”

“I think we were doing a heck of a lot more than that.” Starsky said, giving in to the comfort of his own bed with his partner by his side. “But for now, all I can do is date. Maybe get to first base after a long nap.”

“We passed third base a long time ago, Starsky. You’re home and safe.” Hutch squeezed his hand, acknowledging their bond, even if the word love was never spoken aloud. “If you’ve got to go back to the minor league for half a season, I always liked messing around in the outfield with the catcher.”

“Who says I’m the catcher? I’m the pitcher.”

“As long as I can hold the bat,” Hutch declared raunchily. “Content?”

Starsky looked down at their entwined fingers, surprised to find that he was content, as long as he was with Hutch. “My grandmother, who lived . . .”

“Over an Italian restaurant?” Hutch finished for him, flipping a light sheet over him.

“Smart-ass,” Starsky snorted, experimenting with a deep breath. The pain when he breathed or even swallowed was there, but muted on the edges, tolerable. “She had these weird ideas, kinda like astola-gy.”

“Astronomy or astrology?”

“The one where I’m an Aries and you’re a virgin.”

“Virgo!” Hutch retorted, swatting at Starsky’s knee under the sheet. The tips of his fingers barely contacted, but the gesture proved that he knew Starsky wasn’t breakable. Starsky yearned for their old easiness, when they could tussle and shove without having to worry that the other would bruise.

Patience, Hutch had said. Waiting and patience were two things Starsky had never been very good at. Maybe he needed the gallbladder’s soothing effects more than he’d expected.

“Could you get me some more of that chocolate?” he asked. Might as well make use of his gall bladder by eating more fat.

Hutch rolled his eyes good-naturedly and retrieved the remaining liver candy. “You’d better not get hyped up on all the sugar.”

“You bought it.” Starsky bit down on a third piece, letting it melt in his mouth. “Grandma Pulaski thought that the planets and stuff affected your body,” he said after Hutch had settled against the headboard next to him with another slice of chocolate. “Guess she hadn’t read the Talmud, either.” He could picture her so easily in her cramped little kitchen, muttering in a thick Polish accent while making the old country dishes. “When you were sick, it was because one of the planets was out of alignment and when you were strong, because the planets were lined up right. Jupiter was the liver. I remember that one, ‘cause after trying every other kind of logic to get me to eat liver and onions, she used that when I had to do a report about Jupiter in fourth grade.”

“Did you eat it?” Hutch turned toward him, their faces so close their breath mingled.

“No! Used to stuff it in my pocket and run down to the corner to feed it to the cats that lived in the alley.” Starsky grinned against the whisper of Hutch’s mustache on his cheek. “Now, this liver from Unique Chocolique. You can get this again.” He kissed Hutch’s cheek, felt more than saw the way Hutch relaxed, the tension in his jaw smoothing out. “Or better yet—one of those cocks. Solid, really hard.”

“BASTARDs made Mme. Confisier get rid of the mold.” Hutch kissed him, then slid one arm around his shoulder to sit Starsky up straighter. “So I confiscated the lot of ‘em. Just in case.”

“Wanna do some candy making?”

“Chocolate is really malleable,” Hutch advised with mock pompousness, gesturing with one lobe of the chocolate liver. “It hardens quickly and goes soft and liquid when it gets warm. That what you’re thinking of?”

Starsky laughed, the memory of early morning sex and Hutch’s penis swelling in his hand before he’d slipped it in his mouth by far the clearest recollection he had of May 15th. The one thing that had kept him going through the dark nights and pain-filled days.

Worth waiting for.

“It’s a date,” he said hoarsely.

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Kaye Austen Michaels, because she inspires me to write the best that I can—and the baseball references are for her.


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